


son of a gun

by kyu (dazaicat)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - No Ice Skating, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 12:55:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13077318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dazaicat/pseuds/kyu
Summary: otabek has several priorities—water his cactus, make some tea, kill a man to get paid, the usual bachelor lifestyle.enter asshole that just doesn't know how to leave people (and their curtains) alone.hitman au.





	son of a gun

**Author's Note:**

> u: 'over a cup of tea' is such a good prompt for a coffeeshop au, yes?  
> me: logical and good. hitman au it is
> 
> ok so! this was meant to be chapter 4 of [this series](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12648336) for the prompt "over a cup of tea" but then i got carried away and included _too much_ stuff leading up to the actual confession and it grew into a 7k mess with no confession scene in sight--so i'll. uh. probably write just that scene and upload it there instead?? im sörry
> 
> apart from that, it's the usual pointless mess. enjoy!
> 
> (hover/click on the Russian words for translations.)

There are many ways to say "fuck this", both verbal and non-verbal; being fluent in at least five languages and passably proficient in thirteen, Otabek Altin—codenamed _nothing_ , because he isn't a punk who goes in for that codename shit—has mentally exhausted a sizeable amount of them.

He steps carefully to the side, avoiding the steady trickle of blood running into the tile and staining the grooves pink. The blood of his very, _very_ dead target which he _definitely_ didn't touch. The man has been arranged very carefully and precisely to look the opposite of a careful and precise kill; had this not been the fifth time in the past quarter that some asshole has sniped— _hah_ —Otabek's mark, he might have even been impressed with the sheer dedication to erasing all signs of fucks having been given.

As it is, he's understandably very annoyed.

Outwardly, just like the four corpses before that, the man on the ground shows no obvious cause of death. Unlike some others in the business that Otabek knows, his mysterious kill-thief doesn't go in for theatrics like ripping out the throats of victims _after_ stabbing them in the back—Ice Tiger style—or creative disembowelment, like Katsudon (or his fiancé, who the fuck knows the difference anymore).

No, his killer instead manages to leave absolutely _no sign_ as to how they've done the killing, and instead leaves ridiculous calling cards on every body. Case in point: when Otabek steps closer, and pries the jaw of the _very dead_ man open, a marble chess piece glints between chipped teeth. He pulls it out, holding it to the dim light of the cheap apartment.

It is, very predictably, a king. It's heavy in Otabek's hand, marble contrasting with the black leather of his thin gloves, and absolutely spotless given the amount of blood on the floor. He turns it over, but there's nothing notable besides a pair of tiny, parallel grooves on the bottom.

He knows what they spell without even looking—brushing a gloved thumb against the _JJ_ carved into the bottom of the piece, he tucks the chunk of white marble into the pocket of his vest. He'll still bribe someone to get the usual tests run on it, but he strongly suspects that they'll find nothing—no DNA, no fingerprints, no clues that would be remotely helpful towards figuring out who has been pissing in Otabek's backyard.

When Otabek leaves the area, with one final scan and several snapped photos for the road, he vaguely mourns the loss that must have been suffered by a truly _beautiful_ chess set. Honestly; that's the most insulting part of it all.

\--

When he reaches his own apartment, peeling the gloves off in the dark of the parking lot and methodically wiping his boots on the dry grass patch behind said lot, the mission-calm lifts slightly to let irritation bleed through. It carries him up the stairs, through a near-automatic ritual of unlocking his door and pushing it open a little and then all at once, and into the toilet adjoining the main hallway.

Once safely in the shower, he pulls out the new addition to his collection—from the pocket that was lined with a Ziploc bag, he isn't some kind of _amateur_ —and stares at it for a few seconds before setting it down on the shelf next to his toothbrushes. Inspecting it can come later. Instead, he runs the shower as hot as he can bear and tips his head back. The water bears down on his shoulders hard, soaking through the vest and the thin cotton shirt underneath; it has the effect of making his thoughts feel heavy and warm and soggy, heat overpowering irritation.

For five uninterrupted minutes, he lets himself indulge. Puts the thoughts of stolen kills and cheeky king references and DNA tests out of his mind to breathe in the hot mist.

Then he starts scrubbing down his gear and himself, cursing viciously under his breath in creative Russian.

\--

When he emerges another ten minutes later, damp feet padding across wooden tiles into his bedroom, his mood feels much like his skin—scrubbed down hard, fresh, and vaguely lavender-scented. The curtains are closed; so he pitches his towel towards his bed with the accuracy of a person who has pitched towels towards the bed countless times before, and sits naked on it to dry off.

If Yura knew, he would mock Otabek so hard. Yura isn't there to mock Otabek, though, which is the main motivation behind Otabek doing things like drinking milk directly out of the carton and peeing in the shower.

He settles in and pulls the Ziploc bag closer from the folds of the towel. Under the warm orange-tinted glow of his lamp, the white marble looks almost golden. Expensive, definitely. Clean, spotless, craftsmanship impeccable and every single line unbroken and smooth. It feels strange, actually, to fondle something like that while sitting buck-ass naked against the headboard of his bed, but—just strange, actually. No particular arguments otherwise. Realizing this, Otabek squints a little at it and rolls the little plastic baggie into a more compact shape.

He stretches enough to unlock the top bedside drawer one-handed, slips the baggie inside—next to four other Ziploc baggies containing a King Of Hearts card, an old but undeniably golden coin with the likeness of some king on it, a crown pendant, and a solid-gold toothpick tipped with a tiny diamond crown—and slides it shut, waiting for the beep to sound and indicate that the locking mechanism engaged successfully.

Then he checks the weaponry stored neatly under his pillow, and promptly passes out for six hours.

\--

He wakes to the sound of his phone buzzing off the edge of the table. His finely-honed reflexes and flexibility let him catch it before it hits the ground; but when he slides to answer the call, no amount of training saves him from the knowledge that he, once again, has disappointed one of the people in his life that count the most.

" _Hi_ , Bek," his best and most reliable contact in the industry says sweetly, and Otabek knows he is fucked.

"Listen, it wasn't my fault—" he begins, valiantly. An attempt must be made.

"I'm not calling you about that," she cuts him off at the knees. Otabek falls silent. "I hope you have something for me today?"

"I took pictures of the site and the body, but—"

"Good boy!" she crows, and Otabek reaches for the top drawer to pull out the newest item. "From what I can tell from the pics, nothing new. He leave you a present?"

"You don't know that it's a he," Otabek mutters, but obligingly describes the piece in detail.

She hums, contemplative. "True. We might have a lead, though, so be ready to move out and chase—"

"A lead?" Otabek perks up immediately. Three _months_ of this mystery bullshit—

"Yep," she says, popping the 'p'. "Though, I must warn you—" at this, Otabek goes wary immediately, because so few things get him a _warning_ —"this may be somewhat messier than expected. I'll email you the details, the usual."

"Sure," Otabek says, mind already half-out of the conversation and chewing frantically over the possibilities. A beat passes.

"Take care, Bek." He can hear the undertone of worry in her voice, as well as a thread of her usual bloodthirsty tendency to chase everything that can run. It makes him more restless than not.

"Always," he says. "You too."

She sighs, and ends the call there. Otabek sets the phone down, and shivers with the sudden thrill washing through him like winter air. It's been _so long_ —he's by no means _complacent_ , no, but it's been so very _long_ since he felt something might be actually _interesting._

He grins. And then goes back to sleep, because he'd rather be awake and rested for when shit goes down.

\--

He wakes a couple hours later with a creeping realization of wrongness.

It feels like someone barged into his metaphorical house, triggering every single alarm, and swept every single thing off his shelves, starting with his little tiger figurines—and then pitched gracefully out the window head-first. Utterly _wrong._

Otabek tries to calm his heartbeat and instead focuses on spreading his senses out, listening to the suddenly-eerie quiet. Once he's ascertained that nothing sounds like it's about to kill him, he turns, ready to get out of bed and check everything with his other senses—

And then trips out of bed, cursing loudly and violently, when he sees it.

The curtains are pulled wide open. They're on the inside, and the window is locked as far as he can see, but they are _open_ and he's pretty sure they were _closed_ —he tamps down the panic with years of experience, and untangles himself from the bedsheets around his legs to stumble towards the window.

He curses even louder when he notices, finally, the intricate design painted on it in frost. Definitely fresh. Otabek picks up his phone on reflex, holding it up like it will ward off demons, and swipes to the camera app—frames the creepily symmetrical crown, presses the shutter a couple times. Then he notices words, handwritten in perfect script for all that they must have been written in _reverse_ , and almost puts his phone through the window.

 **Nice attire ;)** , they read, the curve of the winky face elegant and sweeping. Otabek has probably never hated anyone more, ever, than whoever the fuck is responsible.

\--

Otabek takes several moments to pull on pants due to sudden and profound uncomfortableness. The window, he ascertains, is indeed locked—from the inside—so nothing explains the fucking _curtains_ , and the snow on the little ledge outside the window is undisturbed. He's on the seventh fucking floor, too, with no buildings opposite his to provide any kind of convenient spying location.

One thing he can tell; whoever the asshole with a raging hard-on for king imagery is, they've just made it _personal._ That, and they know where Otabek lives, which is disturbing as fuck on its own.

The moment he sends the pictures and a concise—if somewhat paranoid—update through an encrypted app to his best and most favourite person in the world, he starts packing immediately.

Luckily for him, he's always travelled light. Many shirts; similarly, many pairs of identical cargo pants, enough to fill exactly half an extra-sized duffle bag. The other half is filled with assorted ammunition, a disassembled rifle, two guns, a pack of razorblades and several rubber bands.

The knives, he keeps next to the cling-wrapped cactus in his backpack. There's also Advil somewhere in the mirror cabinet above the sink—he sweeps it in, along with blue contact lenses, and brown contact lenses, and green contact lenses. In a few minutes, every single tiger figurine is stuffed into his socks and next to the cactus in the backpack, and the entire top drawer is pried out as is and shoved into the remaining space between the cactus and the knives.

Finally, Otabek shoves the only pack of crackers in his kitchen directly into his mouth and sadly observes the tea he has no space for. _Such a waste._ A brand-new box of earl grey, too—the bastard behind this will suffer, Otabek vows, and then he's ready to leave.

Hopefully, there is a place with both decent water pressure and affordable rent nearby. In Otabek's experience, this is very rare.

\--

Rare as decently hot water at a decently strong rate may be, having a king-obsessed stalker killing the people you're paid to kill before you kill them is, comparatively, rarer. Thus, Otabek has luck on his side. He also has a box of brown hair dye, courtesy of a quick trip to the 24/7 store—together, these things are sufficient for a makeover, which Otabek promptly begins with.

Hair firmly clingwrapped with the clingwrap liberated from the cactus (now perched atop the toilet), Otabek pries out a drawer from his new bedside cabinet and shoves the locked one in. It's not a perfect fit; but, with luck, he'll have some time to fix that soon.

He checks his messages, next, right after setting up every single bit of his previous security system he could salvage. He almost doesn't want to; his contact's truly stunning capabilities in the area of information gathering make him as anxious as relieved, but needs must.

There is only one message in his inbox, and the six words form something closely approximating a horror story.

_**On it. Sending Tiger. Sit tight.** _

Well, _fuck,_ Otabek thinks. He doesn't even have tea.

\--

When Yura arrives—classily, through the window, with a stealth that would have scared the shit out of lesser men—he starts sniffing immediately at every single thing in Otabek's new apartment. Otabek bears with it only up till Yura turns his nose up at the cactus; then he intervenes, firmly, and sacrifices his bed to Yura's no-shoes-indoors mentality instead.

Then he spends an hour sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room while Yura alternately zooms in on random places in the pictures he's been sent, checks Instagram, and sharpens no less than three knives at once. By the time Yura hums and finally sets his phone down, Otabek has nearly vibrated out of his armchair and also his skin.

"I know the fucker," Yura starts off with. It's a start Otabek would have appreciated, oh, _three months ago._ He wisely doesn't say anything. "Well, used to know, at least? Kind of an arrogant bastard—бля, Бек, у тебя пить есть?—thought himself some kind of king, yeah? Called himself JJ, back then."

"Beer, maybe," answers Otabek, while mulling the rest of it over. Yura sniffs delicately, but Otabek had appearances to keep up, damn it. "Back then?"

Yura waves a hand vaguely, and doesn't elaborate. "Long story. Anyways, now, he's—expanded, you could say."

Otabek waits for Yura to continue. Yura waits, pale eyebrows raised like he's a teacher waiting for an answer to a question, and then sighs in a resigned manner Otabek so rarely sees on Yura.

"Not someone I'd fuck with now," he says, grim.

"What's JJ stand for?"

"No idea," Yura lifts an elegant shoulder in a shrug, and picks up his phone. "Something lame, probably."

"Any idea why he's after me?" Otabek tries.

At this, Yura looks up consideringly. "Nope," he says, and opens Instagram again. "Figure it out."

Deciding that's the most he's going to get out of Yura, Otabek sighs and pulls himself out of the armchair. He nudges at Yura's bare foot, making just enough space to curl up on the bed, and fits himself into it.

Yura keeps watch; even pets Otabek's hair, so it almost works out to be a good nap.

\--

The next time Otabek gets a text—"Do you like me, y/n ??? xoxo Karin"—he carefully considers his options. On one hand, taking a new contract on would buffer his finances a little; besides, he's never been good idling for long. Waking up in bed with the Ice Tiger of Russia, while incredibly dangerous on paper, did nothing to dispel the restlessness, no matter how much Yura might have yawned on him.

On the other hand—there was the whole stalker thing, and the curtains mystery, and the inconvenience of the stalker doing his homework for him, which all in all added up to a pretty solid case towards texting back a solid _no, you are not my type, apologies._

On the third, mutant, hand—what's to say that not taking the job would prevent his stalker from finding the new apartment, and fucking with his curtains again? Otabek was taught to be patient, not _passive_ , and the idea of waiting for someone to come get him first sets his teeth on edge. _Especially_ in absence of a well-planned ambush.

 _Maybe, Karin. How about we discuss this over coffee?_ Otabek texts back, and checks his knives collection again. Courtesy of Yura, all his knives are polished to a mirror-shine and sharp as _fuck._

 _Twelfth at eight,_ he gets as a reply within seconds. Then, _don’t be late! ;)_ , and a bouncing tiger sticker.

Eight p.m., third block four streets down, same day, then. With a provision for Yura tagging along. Otabek thinks it over, and replies with _I won't be,_ and a sitting tiger sticker. The security isn't up fully, yet, and Otabek will die before he lets someone fuck with his curtains _again_ , so. He can handle a coffee date on his own.

\--

His favouritest person in the world meets him nice and late, faking shyness and joining his table five minutes later as agreed. Otabek smiles at her, and continues adding sugar to her coffee. Neither of them drink.

"So!" She says, brightly. "How are you doing?"

Otabek winces and keeps adding sugar. He's on his fifth packet. She looks at the scattered empty paper on the table between them, and frowns. "That's kind of an overreaction, isn't it?"

"You don't understand," Otabek says, pained. "My _curtains._ "

She hums, and takes the sugar packets away from him. "We're on it. So far, no traces found inside of apartment or underneath the window, which is disappointing but not surprising. I'll keep you updated."

She pretends to take a sip, and takes the opportunity to observe him in silence. He pretends to take a sip, and stares back. Her hair is very red, today.

When she speaks again, her voice is pitched soft. "I'd say yes, if I were you. It's a good opportunity—he hasn't tried to hurt you yet, and he could've, yeah? We won't learn much from you sitting on your ass at home."

Otabek knows she's right, but the uncertainty gnaws at his bones nonetheless. He hates being uncertain. "Alone?" That's the million dollar question, isn't it?

"You know baby brother can be a little… overly direct," she says, and grins sadly into her still-full cup.

 _Overly direct_ is putting it mildly, Otabek thinks. If Yura gets a clean line of sight on someone who fucked with Otabek's curtains, the poor dude may not even live to explain himself.

"I'll think about it," he decides on, finally. "But I want the job."

His hand twitches towards the sugar packets. She lays hers over it, and to an outsider, it probably looks disgustingly romantic—"Don't die, though," she says with a sweet smile and lets go.

"Not planning to," Otabek shrugs, and fixes her with a passable smile to keep up the charade.

They leave two full coffee cups on the table with a couple of bills. Otabek goes to his new home; to Yura, and to scheme.

\--

His new contract is straightforward. Male, late thirties; predictable schedule, smokes for half an hour in alleyway at 11 each night, clearly unconcerned with own safety. Who the fuck smokes at _midnight_ , in closed-off side streets? Someone asking to get murdered, that's who. Someone blind to everything, up to and including the fact that his siphoning off funds went far from unnoticed. Someone must have gotten real salty about it, to hire Otabek—the dude looks shitty on paper, anyway, so Otabek isn't overly concerned.

Given how it's a simple mission, he packs two knives in convenient holsters—one thigh, one wrist, for variety—and shoves a gun under his ass just in case he happens to bump into his friendly curtain friend. Who, upon reflection, has also seen Otabek naked. Otabek shudders and ignores the feeling of his skin wanting to crawl off and down the drain.

Packing done, Otabek pats his cactus and Yura's head in goodbye. Both are equally prickly, and Yura tries to bite his hand off, so Otabek warns him to keep watch over the cactus and lowers himself out the window to the fire escape. The apartment is conveniently located close enough to the building he has to be at; he stretches his muscles, channels his inner fitness person, and sets off at a light jog. It's a little late, but he hopes the charade is convincing enough, especially given how _some people_ drink spinach smoothies. A jog at 10pm in winter is hardly the weirdest thing people have done for fitness.

He circles around for half an hour, and then makes his way to the scene. It's fully dark, and his footsteps fall light on the dark patches of road where snow melted. In a few hours, they'll be snowed over entirely. He stays out of the range of the orange streetlights, and watches his breath curl in front of him instead. In. Out. In. Out.

The alleyway, when he reaches, is occupied. It's to be expected; Otabek plasters on his best smile, and puts his hands on his thighs in mock exhaustion as he peers up at the man. His right hand is within range of his knife, ready for movement.

He pitches his voice lower, and makes his move. "Hey man, you got a smoke?"

To his credit, the dude looks vaguely suspicious of someone obsessed enough with fitness to jog at 11pm in winter asking for a smoke. He pulls out his pack again, though, and Otabek moves in just close enough to confirm his identity in the dim glow of his lit cigarette, straightening fluidly and seconds from dispatching the guy entirely, and—

"Hey," someone speaks up behind him, and Otabek has to pretend as hard as fucking possible to be a startled pedestrian, and not a trained hitman whirling around ready to lodge a knife in someone's throat.

In the shadows, just barely resolved, is a man roughly Otabek's size. All of Otabek's senses fire warnings off at once, strung suddenly sharp and tight, battle-ready and alert. He palms his knife in the darkness, and strains to see what the fuck is going on.

"Need a light?"

The stranger's voice is low but carries clearly across to them. There is no hint of uncertainty; if anything, Otabek would think it tends towards _amused,_ and _kind of mocking,_ and Otabek _really_ doesn't have time for this shit. He just wants to kill a man, get paid, and go back home to water his cactus.

The stranger elaborates, eyes glinting in the winter dark. "He borrowed it from me, after all. I can share." That last part is said with such creeping amusement that Otabek suddenly _gets it,_ and wishes he didn't _get it._

He sighs, and slashes the knife up and out in a quick movement, pausing for a moment to step out of the eventual spray of blood. Thank god for winter—a decent excuse to wear gloves everywhere. Then he turns immediately, attention already on the stranger, where he's—

Gone, apparently. Fucking vanished.

Otabek crouches down, all senses still firing at full alert, and packs as much snow he can get over the wound before he drags the body over to the dumpster and sends off a text for disposal. Not really his area, after all.

He moves out, deliberately taking a different route, and sheds his hat in favour of a different one pulled out of his pocket. He scans every inch of the surroundings but sees nothing, jerks to attention at the sound of a stray cat—barely noticeable, but still a full-body flinch—and calms down in increments, willing himself to remain pliant and ready and alert, when—

The stranger falls into step beside him, seemingly out of fucking nowhere.

"That was hot," the stranger drawls, same edge of infuriating amusement, and Otabek doesn't think at all before driving his elbow into his throat on reflex.

He tries to, at least. The stranger moves like nothing he's ever seen, side-stepping the elbow and sweeping to the back, crushing an arm to Otabek's throat and slapping away Otabek's hand when he goes for the knife. Otabek drives his head back, hoping to catch the asshole in the nose or chin or something and loosen his grip, but then the arm is replaced with a knife— _his own knife_ —and a cold kind of fear uncurls in Otabek's chest at the thought that he could _die like this._

"You're kind of an amateur, aren't you?" It's quiet, directly in his ear, almost intimate—and suddenly Otabek's blood boils enough to dispel the cold entirely. He jerks forward, both hands suddenly free to wrench the knife away so it drops into the snow below, and then he's whirling around in anger.

The stranger steps back immediately, hands coming up with a laugh. Otabek suddenly remembers the gun he tucked away, and reaches a hand back—

"Don't," the stranger says, amusement suddenly drained away to make way for hushed steel. "That would get messy, and I would rather avoid messy."

"The fuck," Otabek says, because it's what best describes his feelings. "Who are you," he adds, when training kicks in.

The stranger shrugs, and moves a step forward in a movement that almost passes for casual. Otabek warily steps back. The step brings the stranger almost into a pool of orange light from a streetlight above, and it highlights the space between them like some kind of stage. From where he is, Otabek can only tell that the stranger is taller than him—by about 10 centimeters—and though he can't discern build through the layers, what he's felt in their little altercation felt pretty fucking _built._

Without the gun, Otabek doesn't like his odds.

He draws immediately in one fluid movement, levelling the gun up as soon as it's in his hand.

He thinks he hears a sigh, before there's a whisper at his back and the world goes dark. The last thing he remembers _doing_ is pulling the trigger; the last thing he remembers _feeling_ is a sharp burst of pain.

The last thing he remembers _hearing_ , he thinks, is a quietly amused ' _warned you_ ', but that may be the unconsciousness talking.

\--

He comes to with Yura hovering over him and cursing bloody murder in a stunning mix of Russian, Mandarin and English. At some point Otabek thinks some French makes an appearance—but the world feels too hazy around the edges to be sure.

"Убью," Yura snarls, "эту гадину _совсем_."

"Wh-a?" Otabek croaks politely.

Yura turns his holy rage on him immediately, voice creeping up from a snarl into a shrill register that pierces through the fog the world seems to be.

"You! Were shot! Bleeding! On my own fucking doorstep!"

 _My_ own doorstep, Otabek wants to argue, recognizing the new apartment, but refrains in favour of clearing his throat. "Where?"

"You'll live," Yura snorts, and then his expression flickers back to murderous. "He won't."

"Knife?" Otabek asks.

"???" Yura replies, and then probably reads Otabek's mind directly and rolls his eyes. "I washed them for you. All accounted for, don't worry."

Otabek frowns. He's pretty sure one was dropped in the snow, and he didn't pick it up—"Two?" he confirms.

"Да," Yura says, and takes a swig of vodka he's materialized from somewhere. That means—

"Coat," Otabek says, insistently.

"I'm not your maid," Yura shoots back, annoyed.

" _Coat_ ," Otabek repeats, more insistently. "Please."

Yura rolls his eyes again, harder, but pulls the coat Otabek was wearing towards him. Otabek slips a hand—his right, because his left is in a _cast_ , holy shit is it surreal no matter how many times he gets shot or stabbed or punched—and fishes out a slip of paper.

He reads it. Closes his eyes. Opens them again, reads it again, closes them again. Yura joins him then, reading it over his shoulder, and makes a sound like a cat being dismembered. The yowl sends a spike of headache reverberating through Otabek's skull, and he cringes away—through the real headache is in front of him, in elegant ink sweeps he could swear are identical to a certain winky face haunting his dreams.

 _Sorry about that,_ the paper reads. _Let's talk about it?_ , followed by several digits.

Otabek has just enough time to commit them to memory before the paper is in pieces and then also on fire.

\--

The next time he sees his favouritest person, he gets shouted at very loudly in Russian about how he pretty much _promised_ her not to die, and then went and got _shot,_ which equals to _almost dying._ Then he gets a noseful of auburn hair and a very itchy neck and a very tight hug on the right side of his body (because his left arm is in a cast, still).

When she gets down to business, dragging details about that night out of him he doesn't remember even remembering but somehow remembers, she also lets slip that they've recovered the body and that Otabek is 10k richer, and thus also able to afford a better armchair. She also lets slip that they've found yet _another_ gift on the body. This time it's some kind of lighter with the crown motif engraved on it.

Otabek feels helpless fury regarding that, partially because it's really _something_ to shoot a dude and then go and casually continue your happy habit of leaving weird objects on the people he's supposed to be killing, but also because it's _his_ kill, goddamnit, he did it _himself_ this time. He's pretty sure you can't claim someone else's kill just by shooting them.

Then she tells him about the fact that they haven't been able to recover the gun he was holding— _his_ gun!—and the fury crests so hard he almost walks off and goes to strangle the dude with his own bare hands. Or bare _hand_ , depending on speed of recovery.

He doesn’t, though, because he's smart and she's smarter. Instead, he tells her about the number and she asks him if he by any chance recalls what it was, for tracking purposes.

Maybe he's not too smart, though, because he lies to her and says he doesn't remember it.

Scratch that: _definitely_ not too smart, because he saves it in his phone as "King Asshole", and, high on painkillers, sends a text.

\--

"Whore too and wheres my find," is the valiant first attempt he goes with. It boasts a high degree of accuracy given his limited mobility.

"Who're you gun," he corrects, after consulting autocorrect.

"Where's," he adds finally.

The replies come a minute later, in a flurry.

≫Otabek?  
≫So cute  
≫Gun with me  
≫Meet up?  
≫Also sorry for getting you shot  
≫To be fair, you pulled the gun first

Typing is hard, but Otabek has many questions.

≪How's you know my name  
≪how'd  
≪Fuck you  
≪Who are you

≫I know many things  
≫And have many names  
≫But you can call me King JJ ;)  
≫Also I don't put out on the first date so don't even ask

≪die  
Otabek says this because he is too annoyed and woozy to come up with a proper response. The reply from King Asshole takes a while.

≫Rude  
≫Esp given how you tried and failed lmao  
≫Do you want your gun back or not

≪Are you doing to shout me again  
≪Going  
≪Shoot  
≪MY gun

≫YOUR gun, I know :)  
≫And my what a big gun it is  
≫Want it back?  
≫Meet up with me

≪Was that a duck joke  
≪Dick  
≪Hell no

  
≫…

≪Gun?

≫8pm Blue Danube  
≫Wear something nice

≪??????!

≫Bye

≪Hey as hole  
≪Asshole  
≪??!!!!!  
≪??!!!!!!!

The replies stop coming, and Otabek growls at his phone before tossing it on the bed. The painkillers must be wearing off; the toss sends a sharp stab of pain lancing through his arm, and the sound brings Yura prancing in with more pills. Soon, Otabek sleeps.

He doesn’t notice the texts until the next day.

≫…  
≫So cute  
≫Goodnight, Otabek.

And hours later, at 3am:  
≫Hope you'll come tho

\--

Upon waking up, Otabek has a series of realizations.

Firstly, that guns are pretty disposable things, and he can just get _another_ one, no creepy socialization necessary.

Secondly, that when his favouritest person in the industry finds out he not only lied to her about the number but also texted it without telling her first, she will kill him dead.

Thirdly—if she doesn't kill him dead then Yura will finish the job, and then shove a knife between his teeth and hide in a chandelier above whatever table King Asshole picks and then drop directly into his salad and then stab him.

His fourth realization is that he got shot in the arm a day ago and it _hurts_. That's funny, because he doesn't actually remember the asshole having a gun, and the angle the bullet entered from makes no fucking _sense_ —yeah, Otabek really wants some answers and he wants them preferably before he gets shot again.

He won't be able to go scouting on his own, and the thought of going in without backup makes him feel the kind of uneasy he thought he left behind years ago, so he eventually texts his favouritest contact through the encrypted app and then turns his phone to silent.

An hour later, his front door slams open.

She sweeps in, dumps several bags of takeout on his coffee table with more violence than the movement demands, and then he has a phone shoved in his face that he can't really focus on.

"Explain," she says.

"It was a good idea at the time," he says, and her lips go thin.

"As far as I'm concerned it was _never_ a good idea, Bek. Did you think it through? What are you even going to wear?"

The sudden hard left leaves Otabek blinking for several moments, and then she sighs and answers for him.

"Right, I'll get you something. I'm coming with you, so no bitching—do you _know_ how hard it is to find a decent dress on such short notice? Anyway, you aren't going alone, I'll have to find you a suit that would accommodate your arm—"

"Thank you," Otabek says.

She purses her lips further but nods.

"Yura?" Otabek asks, because he is a masochist.

"On backup," she says, and pushes a container of fried rice towards him. "Can you eat with your right hand?"

It's a little awkward, but he manages to remind his right arm that he is technically ambidextrous. She taps on her phone at speeds that leave him wondering how she hasn't shattered the screen yet, and steals pieces of egg roll with her nails. For a while, Otabek gets to enjoy a very rare calm that comes with trustworthy company and good food.

\--

When the fried rice is long gone and it's nearing 7pm, the doorbell rings and she lifts herself out of the couch to answer it. Otabek lies on the couch and tries to ignore the twinging in his left arm.

She comes back with two long zipped-up bags with hangers sticking out the top like antlers. One, she dumps on Otabek gently; the other, she disappears with into his tiny bathroom. The bag feels heavy and sort of expensive and the hanger digs into Otabek's neck, so he pushes it to the side and wishes he had more fried rice.

When she emerges, looking absolutely stunning in blood orange, he is halfway to his usual mission-calm. By the time she helps him into the navy-blue jacket and helps adjust the holster under it, the haze of painkillers has taken sidelines to cold determination. He _will_ find out what the fuck King Asshole's deal is; he _will not_ sustain any more unjuries, to his pride or otherwise.

She takes his (left, but very gently) arm and stays on his left side as he enters the cab. His phone chimes with no less than seventeen flying tiger stickers; they're ready.

\--

He halfway doesn't expect the asshole to turn up.

However; the moment they arrive, they are guided to a semi-closed booth with no further questions asked. It's a little too late to back out, at that point. So Otabek focuses on pretending to not have been shot, instead of his rising uncertainty.

It's 7:57pm, and the table they're pointed to has a couple seated at it.

At first, Otabek wonders if they were mistaken, somehow—but then the ridiculous sidecut comes into view, and following the line of the undoubtedly expensive tie upwards Otabek gazes upon the face of his Stalker Asshole in proper light for the first time.

 _Oh no he's hot_ , part of his brain gleefully supplies. _He also got me shot and denied me of income for a quarter of a year_ , he hisses at it, and then adds _also he's wearing a fucking tie over a **t-shirt** what the **fuck**._

Then his favouritest person in the industry makes a quietly wounded sound, fingertips digging into Otabek's wounded arm, and Otabek's attention snaps immediately to the black-haired woman sitting next to King Asshole.

"Isabella," Otabek's favouritest person in the industry says, ignoring Otabek's twitch at the sudden pain. It's very awkward for several moments.

 _Isabella_ looks like she's about to speak, but is cut off immediately.

"Don't," Otabek's contact says, and settles opposite King Asshole while pulling Otabek along. He takes a seat opposite Isabella. The awkwardness lingers.

"You know what—be back in a minute," King Asshole says, and decisively smooths his jacket down.

"Same," says Otabek, and follows.

\--

He manages to corner the asshole the moment they enter the toilet. Pinning someone to a wall with his right arm is a little more difficult than with his left, but he manages. To his credit, King Asshole lets him with no further resistance besides gripping Otabek's left arm in a gentle, but appropriately warning gesture.

"Who are you," Otabek says, trying to ignore the height difference.

"Who's asking?" he gets as a reply. It would have been annoying as fuck had the asshole not looked vaguely guilty instead of vaguely smug. Otabek increases pressure on his arm and raises his eyebrows. The left one, mostly.

"Me."

The dude exhales. " _You_ —" and Otabek hates the tiny smirk he gets with that—"can call me JJ."

"Alright, what's JJ stand for?"

At that, he gets a slow and sort of confused blink.

"Jean. Jean-Jacques. It's my name." The stranger— _Jean_ —seems to ponder it for a few seconds. "Also known as The King to most, I guess. Can you let me go, maybe? You're wrinkling my shirt." The last part, he says with a winning grin, and Otabek lets him go with a snarl.

When Jean barely stumbles, he instead fists a hand in that ridiculous t-shirt and shoves him back into the wall. He'll show the asshole _wrinkles_.

" _Gun_ ," he says, slow and deliberate.

" _Later_ ," Jean leers, matching his tone with an expression very unsuited to public bathrooms unless some very unsanitary action is happening. He drops the expression the next second, going from unapologetic pervert to vaguely apologetic pervert in a snap. "I really need to talk to you, so. Figured you'd just leave if I gave it back now."

He shrugs and worms out of Otabek's grip easy as anything, and Otabek lets him go and composes himself. JJ starts smoothing out his t-shirt, expression caught between polite interest and assholery as he looks down to where Otabek twisted it into an impressive swirl.

"Glad we had this chat," he says once done. "After you." Then his hand is on the small of Otabek's back, pushing him politely but insistently _out_ , and Otabek ignores the unexpected warmth in favour of wondering if he can detach the asshole's hand with one of the restaurant knives.

\--

They come back to Isabella and Otabek's favouritest industry person passive-aggressively drinking water at each other. They've also shifted seats. Now, Otabek is forced to sit opposite King Asshole— _Jean_ —and the two women are facing _each other_. Otabek wonders how the hell that even happened.

He sits. After a moment, so does Jean. Awkward silence reigns supreme over their table. Otabek raises both eyebrows at Jean, hopefully to prompt him into finally sharing what the _fuck_ the point of the entire fun gathering is, but it's Isabella who eventually clears her throat and smiles sweetly at Otabek.

"Otabek Altin," she says, and if Otabek didn't know better he'd already have leaped the table because _how did she know that name_ —but his favouritest contact digs her nails into his thigh, and he settles down. "I trust JJ told you why we're here?"

"No," he says. Opposite him, JJ immediately downs half his glass of water in one go.

"I see," she says, in the exact same tone Otabek's landlady used to respond to his repeated denial of ownership of the stray cat that used to break into his apartment and steal his underwear. "First of all, I wanted to personally apologize for the...altercation."

He looks at her in confusion, so she glances meaningfully at his left arm.

"Oh," he says. "That. _About that_."

"I don’t respond well to guns being pulled on my employer, you must understand," she tells him with a polite customer service smile. "Potentially _your_ employer, provided you agree to our proposal."

" _ **No**_. What the _fuck_ , Bella. _No_ ," comes from his left even as the meaning of that statement finally sinks in. He looks to his left in well-masked but helpless confusion. About half of it relates to the nickname he just heard. _Bella?_

Jean kicks him under the table, and Otabek's momentary shock is immediately converted into annoyance. When he turns to glare, Jean is watching him with a quietly thoughtful expression.

"I work alone," he says through his teeth.

"I am aware," Jean says cautiously. "Just like I am aware it wasn't always like that."

" _Okay, fuck you_ —"

"Let me finish, please. I know that what happened didn't leave you with the best of memories but right now, it could benefit us _both_ immensely to have you work for me."

"As, what, your _maid_?" Otabek says in his best scathing tone.

"If you want," Jean responds with a smirk just as the waiter finally comes around, effectively blocking Otabek off from leaving.

When the waiter leaves, Jean leans back in his chair and spreads his fingertips on the edge of the table. Otabek considers kicking his chair over. His legs, he thinks, may be long enough if he reaches as far as he can.

"I was thinking more of you doing what you already do now, but with me doing the assigning," Jean continues.

"Why me?" After all, since he is an _amateur…_

Jean leans two elbows on the table and peers at Otabek. "Because I think you have potential to be exactly what I need," he says very seriously.

Isabella coughs into her now-empty glass. Quiet dying whale noises come from Otabek's left.

"I will pay you," Jean adds. "More than you're getting now."

"Not hard, because I haven't been getting _anything_ recently," Otabek says, glad for the reminder. "Guess why. Fuck is up with all those souvenirs, anyway?"

Jean grins, exposing obnoxiously bright teeth to the world. "Wanted to catch your attention. Besides, you stole mine first. I was just paying back the favour."

Otabek is ready to argue, but he has no idea what Jean is talking about, so he files the information away for later.

The next ten minutes are spent in silence while Jean watches Otabek over the rim of his glass, Otabek ignores Jean watching him over the rim of his glass, Isabella serenely observes everything around her with polite interest and Otabek's contact taps a sharp rhythm into the table with her fingernails while staring Jean down like a hawk.

"Nice hair," Jean says eventually. "Suits you."

Otabek looks at him incredulously.

"Then again, anything probably would," Jean continues in an oddly contemplative tone.

"Thanks, but I didn't really want to dye it. _Had_ to, because someone decided to _stalk_ me—"

"So the carpet doesn't match the drapes?" Jean inquires, leaning forward with a devious glint in his eyes and his chin resting on his hand.

"I can gut you with a spoon," Otabek says, leaning forward in a much more threatening manner.

"Violent! I like it," Jean manages to get away with again thanks to the waiter. "That's the kind of spirit I am looking for in my employees," he adds as a steak is placed on the table in front of him.

"Do you also sexually harass your other employees?" Otabek snarks, and the waiter's eyes widen a little. He refills Otabek's glass and excuses himself.

"I didn't know you were going to be naked! Though, _my_ , I have to say, you're definitely up to the _physical_ demands of the job."

" _JJ_ ," Isabella tsks, and then looks to Otabek. "He's not wrong, though. You're definitely qualified." She takes a very innocent sip from her newly-refilled water glass.

"He's not taking it," Otabek's contact says. The statement cuts through the teasing like ice, and Otabek is immediately grateful for it.

"It's his choice, " Isabella says—quiet, but firm, much like the rest of her.

"Yeah, and he's not taking it."

"Aren't you?" Jean raises his eyebrows at Otabek and pauses with his fork and knife poised above his steak.

"Nope," Otabek says. Solidarity in the face of the enemy is key.

"I see," Jean drawls and returns to cutting into his steak. "I suppose I will have fun trying to convince you."

"No thanks."

Jean shrugs, and takes a huge bite. "Never say never, _Bek_. I'm told I'm pretty irresistible."

"First of all, never call me that again. Second of all, you're an egotistical asshole," Otabek bites out, and turns to his salad.

"Third of all?" Jean blinks up at him inquiringly.

"Third of all, shut up, I'm trying to eat my salad."

"What's the salad got that I don't?"

"My attention," Otabek says, and tunes him out entirely.

**Author's Note:**

>  **translations:  
> **  
>  1\. "fuck, Bek, you got something to drink?"  
> back  
> 2\. roughly in the area of "i will kill that bitch DEAD", tho it's more of "i will kill this snake ass bitch entirely"  
>  back  
> 3\. "yes"  
> back
> 
> i swear there will be more....i have it planned out!! i swear!! even if i must chain myself to my table to write it, hm. inb4 my new job hits me w dat 50-hr workweek...and ill start bitching about that instead:)
> 
> find me on [tumblr](http://wingtae.tk/?)!!


End file.
